


Challenge

by Rainbow_Transform



Series: If You Love It, [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Fae & Fairies, Fae history/anything is probably not accurant, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, I'm going to be completely honest, I'm really bad at happy ending, Immortality, Jaskier is a Fae, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Oh My God, Sad Ending, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, This ended worse than I thought, You Have Been Warned, You might cry, it depends, or actually finishing endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:22:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_Transform/pseuds/Rainbow_Transform
Summary: His grandfather was there for his daughter’s birth and then he left. Kissed his wife, blessed the child quietly and then left. Soon after, more and more faes and fairies joined and they hollowed out a world just for them. His lover/wife came to the forest many times, every single time older and older. She never brought her daughter. She told him that the daughter didn’t believe he was watching over them; thought he’d abandoned them. Didn’t want anything to do with him.His daughter, his Princess, a half-fae,deniedher birthright. Broken-hearted, he told his wife to never return and retreated back into the forest. He told his people it wasn’t a big loss; she had nothing that connected her to the Fae. There were no gifts given to her that she was using. His blessing was just of protection while she was young, and to hide anything the could make them think that she’s his people, that she’shisdaughter.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier & Others
Series: If You Love It, [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1682296
Comments: 16
Kudos: 226





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tried searching through the Interweb for the Fae and Fairy myths, and yet here we are. If nothing is accurate I am truly sorry and I would love to actually know the truth of Faes and Fairies in general. I'm sad now :(

When Julian was six, his grandmother sat him down. “Your parents,” she told him. “They don’t have the Gift that you do.”

“My singing?” Julian asked.

“Your singing.” She says, “You have your grandfather’s gift.”

“Singing!” Julian pipes up again. His grandmother’s expression took on an annoyed look. 

“Yes, singing.” She said, “But… you’re a different kind, you must understand.” She’d kneeled at Julian’s feet, and kissed his head.  _ “You are the Prince of Fae,” _ she whispers, and Julian can  _ feel _ the power within her own words. “You will, one day, inherit your grandfather’s Kingdom; and not this hate of a castle. It’s terribly boring, Julian. Tonight, Buttercup, we will go to the Forest, and you will meet your grandfather.”

“Why not now?” Julian asked. 

“Because, darling,” she said, quietly. “Children ought to be asleep when the Fae come forward.” Julian pops his thumb in his mouth and sucks at it. Sharp teeth catch on his skin, but it doesn’t break; his mother tucks him in that night, wraps him tightly underneath three layers.

“It’s cold out.” She’d explained, busying herself with organizing Julian’s toys. “Go to sleep.”

Julian does.

* * *

He’s woken up by his grandmother shaking him gently. “Come,” she beckons and Julian risks a glance at his sleeping mother. He follows his grandmother, and for her age she’s very fast. She whisper-snaps at him to hurry up and Julian’s  _ six _ , he should be running circles around his grandmother. 

They exit the castle. His grandmother shushing him in the woods before she bows her head and, gently, croons out a soft melody that makes Julian want to look around. It feels like there are eyes watching his every move, and he shifts closer to his grandmother; she moves farther into the forest Julian follows like a duckling.

_ “A Prince, born from my daughter’s womb, with my gift of voice,” _ a deep, rich,  _ powerful _ voice seeps into Julian’s ears, soaking them with words. Julian swears he heard that voice before, but he can’t place it anywhere.

“Darling!” His grandmother shouts, barreling deep within the forest to grasp at… something. He comes into Julian’s eyesight; a young man, almost Julian’s father’s age. His grandmother peppers the man’s face with kisses, and he kisses her back fully on the mouth.

_ “Just as beautiful as the day you left,” _ he whispered and Julian’s grandmother giggled like a girl. Like Julian’s  _ mother. _ The man looks at Julian again, and gently pushes his grandmother off. He kneels down in front of Julian.  _ “Hello, Young One,” _ he tells him.  _ “Do you feel our people?” _

“Are they here?” Julian asked, looking back and forth. The man shrugs, and brushes away Jaskier’s hair from his eyes. The man doesn’t reply, instead opting for Julian’s own thoughts of his⸺ _ their _ ⸺people. 

“I think they’re here. But not all,” Julian tells the man. “Um. I don’t know.”

_ “Almost right,” _ the man says.  _ “Do you remember me, Jaskier?” _

“No.” Julian says. “I don’t. But I remember your voice.”

_ “Let me tell you a story,” _ the man said. _ “Come home with me tonight, and we will return tomorrow.” _

__

His grandmother held onto the man’s hands. “I can’t, Citron. Our daughter will be worried enough over her son missing. Not her mother, too. She’ll think I’m the one responsible for it.”

_ “Stole him out right underneath her nose, didn’t you?” _ Citron nuzzled Julian’s grandmother and she laughed.  _ “Go, my flower. My little Dandelion.” _ And she kissed him again, nuzzled underneath his chin, and she turned away, and walked out of the Forest. Julian watched her before the man catches his attention again. 

_ “Your name, Little One.” _ He tells him.  _ “When we are here, in our world. Your name is ‘Jaskier’.” _

And Julian nodded, quiet. The man holds out his hand and Jul— _ Jaskier _ ⸺takes a hold of it.  _ “Then come, Jaskier. And meet our people, from our world. And learn of how you came to be.” _

* * *

He wasn’t  _ exactly _ the grandson of the Fairy King. He wasn’t. His mother disowned Citron as his father, and, therefore, Jaskier wasn’t the Fae King’s grandson. But, Citron fell in love with Jaskier’s grandmother when she was young. The Fairy Queen, Citron’s centuries-old mother, had allowed him to go forth into the human world.  _ “Trial by fire,” _ he’d explained to Jaskier. When it became apparent that Citron (who wasn’t ashamed of his true self) wasn’t exactly  _ human, _ they shunned Jaskier’s grandparents, and the baby she was carrying. They’d even tried to kill him, because ‘if he died so would the spell/hold he’s got on the young girl’. So, he told his mother he couldn’t come home; could never return, and escaped with his family in tow. They traveled for months, and finally settled in Jaskier’s father’s lands (owned by his father’s father) when it became apparent his grandmother couldn’t travel any farther. 

His grandfather was there for his daughter’s birth and then he left. Kissed his wife, blessed the child quietly, and then left. Soon after, more and more faes and fairies joined and they hollowed out a world just for them. His lover/wife came to the forest many times, every single time older and older. She never brought her daughter, not once. She told him that the daughter didn’t believe he was watching over them; thought he’d abandoned them. Didn’t want anything to do with him. 

His daughter, his Princess, a half-fae,  denied her birthright. Broken-hearted, he told his wife to never return and retreated back into the forest. He told his people it wasn’t a big loss; she had nothing that connected her to the Fae. There were no gifts given to her that she was using. His blessing was just of protection while she was young, and to hide anything the could make them think that she’s his people, that she’s  his daughter. 

Then, years down the line, came his lover. Gnarled hands, but her pretty blue eyes as bright as ever. “My daughter,” she said (for the girl wanted nothing with her father). “Is going to get married.”

“To whom?” He’d asked.

“The Viscount’s son.” The mother said dreamily, watching the other Faes take their place. “He is a handsome man, truly, my husband. And, I heard from his father that we are guaranteed a son, at the first try.”

“Tell me his name,” the fae King coaxed. “Won’t you be a darling?”

“No, honey,” she said. “Just as you don’t know my name. You cannot take him, Citron.” And he snarled, low, and angry. 

“If he hurts her,” he threatened. “Bring him to me.”

“Our daughter can take care of herself,” she said lightly, brushing a wrinkled finger against the King’s arm. He’s still young-looking, looking still seventeen like she once was. “Won’t you come to the wedding?”

“I will watch,” he said. “But I refuse to come into the home.”

“All I ask,” she’d said and kissed him.

And when the wedding did come, he did watch from the top of a treetop. He saw his daughter for the first time in years, beautiful and radiant in her dress. And, he  _ swears _ he felt a rustle of… something else inside her. He doesn’t question it, and instead turns his head toward the Viscount’s son who stands at the altar, smiling at his soon-to-be-wife. “If you hurt her,” he whispers and swears upon himself and the Forest that he will take his name and destroy the body.

But, his wife comes hobbling slowly along the path in the later months. He knows that he can’t keep her young; and she knows she’ll leave one way or the other. Yet, she comes with good news. Their daughter is pregnant with a baby girl. A princess to replace the princess. He nodded. She would become a good Queen. “Shall we give one of our children?” He’d asked his people, and one brought forward a woman. 

“We will give our child for our Princess to live with us,” they claimed. And he nodded, setting the date of both the woman’s births. And then, his wife comes with the unexpected news that  _ his daughter’s daughter is dead. _

“She fell,” his wife scoffed. “She fell, apparently, and the baby didn’t survive.”

And he is angry. So, so, so angry. But his wife comes back a year to the girls’ supposed death and claims that the girl is pregnant again. She doesn’t know the gender and her husband just nodded. “We won’t take him,” he said. And his wife hobbled away before returning a full year later, on their meeting day. 

“He is a boy,” she told him. “A boy.”

“Let him go,” the King told her. “A Prince in place of a Princess. I will give a blessing. But you won’t know when.”

The wife nodded and turned away. Walked away, with youthful confidence and stride in her. It does her good to visit him every once in a while.

* * *

_ “And I blessed you,” _ Jaskier’s grandfather said.  _ “I didn’t expect you to have the voice of a Fae rather than your father’s gifts.” _

“And here I am?” Jaskier asked. 

_ “And yet, here we are.” _ He said quietly.

* * *

Destiny had blueprints mapped out in the boy with nothing except a vague outline of a wolf in his soul. Jaskier spent, apparently, months in the forest with his grandfather and his parents were worried sick. They missed his seventh birthday. They’d sent out guards, rewards were set forth, and they’d even sent papers filled with pleads to Cintra for the Queen’s help. His grandmother had snatched up the papers quickly before the Queen saw it, and told his parents that nothing was wrong. She played the ‘crazy grandma’, constantly saying that he was in his room or in the yard playing until he  _ was  _ in the yard. 

He was dirty, pajamas ripped and fingernails filled with dirt. His hair had dust and twigs in them, grown out and loose. “Mother,” he said while she cried into his shoulder. “Mother, Grandfather says hello.” And she stops before picking up her head, tears shining in her eyes.

“What?” She asked, and Jaskier repeated his phrase once again. Her lips curl up in a snarl and begins screaming, shaking him.  _ “Grandfather? Grandfather? That lousy son-of-a-bitch who didn’t even stay around for my birth? HIM? HIM?” _

Jaskier didn’t seem to register the shaking. Instead, he kept his eyes on the horizon. “Yes,” he said. “He wishes you the best.”

And her eyes, filled with hatred, grabs her son’s arm and  _ drags _ him toward the castle. She left her mother standing in the yard, staring at the trees, feeling her lover staring back. She holds up six fingers. Six months. And he disappears into the trees.

* * *

Jaskier was then treated like dirt in his home. He’d spent the first six years in a loving childhood castle with warm hugs and kisses from his mother, to his father’s pats on his back, and when he was in the Forest, he played with so many children and his grandfather’s constant kisses and play-fighting where they spent hours just wrestling in the dirt. He went from that, to his mother constantly ignoring him and telling him to behave, his father’s screams of anger when he tries to travel toward the forest, and his grandfather’s constant humming. Calling for him.  _ But he can’t come. _

So, he hums back. Their songs clash, mix together, become one. It travels down the road toward someone’s ears. Perhaps they will decipher it; but probably not. He becomes Julian again, with Jaskier on the edge of his mind. Two people, two of him, fighting for power.  _ Jaskier _ wants to go home to his family, sing loudly, and push his parents into a closest; Julian wishes to be his parents’ pride and joy again, to feel their love and understanding once again.

* * *

He spends years battling himself, just until Julian fades into the background. Jaskier stands tall, finally winning the fight. And so he runs. He runs, and runs, and runs until the castle and both his families fade into the background of his mind. Julian comes out of the woodwork every now and again, demanding silky clothes and inn rooms. He even demanded Jaskier buy the lute he’d taken to carry around. 

Jaskier is eighteen.  _ Become a bard, _ Julian whispers.  _ You’ll always travel and no one will be able to find you. _

_ Except my family. _

_ Except your family. _

Julian disappears again, and it’s just Jaskier.

* * *

He meets Geralt of Rivia, and instantly  _ knows _ that he’s Jaskier’s. His arms are thick, thighs  _ to die for _ , and that  _ ass.  _ Damn. His grandfather had told him that Destiny is a fickle thing.  _ “Whomever is yours,” _ he told Jaksier.  _ “You might not be theirs. Or you’re just a pawn, ready to be used.” _ And Jaskier agreed, for if Destiny  _ is _ a bitch, he’d kill a man to keep her away from him.

His grandfather had laughed, and told him that Destiny won’t be gone for long. But Geralt is Jaskier’s and Jaskier is Geralt’s. He  _ feels _ the connection from both sides; feels Geralt’s interest and, even perhaps, his love. And so, Jaskier sits at the edge of the table and begins his guessing game. He’s starving but he won’t stuff his face while Geralt’s sitting right in front of him. “Three words or less,” Jaskier says and Geralt doesn’t say anything except that Jaskier’s monsters don’t exist. 

And that’s when Jaskier smiles, because if nothing else, he loves a challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _  
>  The elf King nods his head before he disappears back into the cave; Jaskier watches and swears upon the fae blood running through his veins that he    
>  can’t   
>  die knowing that elves are dying, waiting for an uprising that won’t come. If it does, it’ll be weak. And Jaskier knows that if he sings the song the right way then everything’s going down the drain. They’re going to find these elves, go down trying to kill them and Filavandrel’s going to watch his people die until there’s nothing left except corpses. And then, they’ll either enslave the King⸺“We’ve bested the elves, and here’s their King to prove it,” or they’ll lop off his head and put it on a spike.    
>  _
> 
> _  
> Jaskier sings it the wrong way. And everyone’s grateful for it, Filavandrel probably thinks it’s some petty revenge for breaking Jaskier’s first lute.  
> _
> 
> _  
> Jaskier isn’t going to contradict anyone.  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you realize how much time I spent on this and I KNOW SOMETHING IS GOING TO GO WRONG! WELCOME TO FREAKING QUARANTINE, Y'ALL. WHERE I CAN PRETEND TO WRITE AND DIE INSIDE BECAUSE WHILE I LOVE STAYING INSIDE, I'M FUCKING BORED. CAN'T GO ANYWHERE. MMMM. I WANT SOME FRESH AIR, Y'ALL.
> 
> TAKE CARE LADIES, LORDS, AND NON-BINARY ROYALTY.
> 
> Also, thank you guys so much for the kudos, comments, and the bookmarks! y'all are just fucking amazing, aren'tcha?

In the months that Jaskier had left his parents, his grandfather had become both a playful guardian and a harsh one. Jaskier is his people’s leader when Citron is gone. He won’t go anytime soon, he’d promised. But neither would Jaskier. He’s got Fae magic within his blood keeping him from dying anytime soon. He’ll look eighteen for years to come, his grandfather told him. He’d be an _adult,_ and he must join them when he’s finished wandering the world. 

Jaskier asks how long. His grandfather shrugged. _“However long it takes your heart to feel whole and alive. Or else, my grandson, our people won’t survive.”_ And Jaskier had nodded and took the answer to his heart; waiting for the moment he didn’t feel like needing anything anymore.

* * *

He goes with Geralt, and gets kidnapped by elves, apparently. His lute is broken and Jaskier almost screams because _that’s his!_ He already is threatening death by faes in his mind staring at the elves. The one elves are snapping off, Geralt’s yelling with his rough voice and _damn._

If Jaskier can’t get _that_ . Honestly, if he can’t fuck Geralt at _least once_ , then he’s going to scream. He’s literally going to scream. And he speaks Elder that rolls off his tongue like nothing, snapping at the elves. At least, until the Elf King comes into the cave, contradicting Jaskier’s points.

And Jaskier thinks back to his mother’s family, forced to move over and over because of being shunned by the villages. And he knows, it isn’t the same as getting massacred; it isn’t. But being exiled, forced into hiding? Not being able to go to their own lands? 

Yeah. Jaskier understands.

* * *

“We hope the lute is to your liking,” Filavandrel murmured, not looking him in the eye. Jaskier took the lute, eyeing it critically before accepting it. “We are sorry for destroying your other one.”

“It’s alright.” Jaskier said. “I’m pleased with it. And so are my people.”

Filavandrel nodded and swallowed. “I hope your people and I can… come together.”

“Perhaps.” Jaskier nods and then takes Filvandrel’s hand in a handshake. “One day, our people won’t have to fight or be shunned any longer.”

The elf King nods his head before he disappears back into the cave; Jaskier watches and swears upon the fae blood running through his veins that he can’t die knowing that elves are dying, waiting for an uprising that won’t come. If it does, it’ll be weak. And Jaskier knows that if he sings the song the right way then everything’s going down the drain. They’re going to find these elves, go down trying to kill them and Filavandrel’s going to watch his people die until there’s nothing left except corpses. And then, they’ll either enslave the King⸺“We’ve bested the elves, and here’s their King to prove it,” or they’ll lop off his head and put it on a spike. 

Jaskier sings it the wrong way. And everyone’s grateful for it, Filavandrel probably thinks it’s some petty revenge for breaking Jaskier’s first lute. 

Jaskier isn’t going to contradict anyone.

* * *

The Fae don’t know or have Jaskier’s true name. It’s just _Jaskier_ ; his grandfather had warned him, years ago, that they shouldn’t know his name. _“Names have power, Dandelion,”_ he’d told his grandson, sweeping long hair out of his eyes. _“When your Fae friends wish you home, if they call your True Name, Grandson, you won’t be able to resist. So, just call yourselfs ‘Jaskier’, yes?”_

Even Citron didn’t know Jaskier’s grandmother’s name. He always said she was a smart woman; and she refused to allow the Fae King her name. Neither to have, nor know. Citron had begged, pleaded, groveled on his hands and knees, and still she’d refused. Good thing as well, for Citron would’ve kept her in his home for centuries, and their child would’ve grown up in the Fae community, away from her human side and the Viscount’s son. She wouldn’t have given up her birthright, though.

So, when Jaskier hears the Fae in the woods croon his name, hears his friends’ voices plead for him to return home, he doesn’t move. Isn’t he tired of running everywhere? Where’s his filled heart? His grandfather’s not dead, yet, but he misses his grandson. Jaskier wonders how they’d managed to get this far without their parents and Jaskier’s own grandfather yanking them back. (The Fae, for all their fairy tales and hated tales, are very protective of their loved ones and taken ones. Jaskier’s grandfather had told him that he’d allow his grandson to go fill his heart and go off. Jaskier did.) Jaskier ignores them. Geralt’s eyes are roaming the woods. He probably hears little things, rustling in the bushes, but not Jaskier’s people.

Jaskier falls asleep curled up next to the Witcher, an arm thrown around his stomach. Geralt had huffed when Jaskier first did it but he didn’t _move_ away or anything so Jaskier didn’t move his arm either. The Fae in the woods silenced themselves and seemed to melt into the forests. Oh the power of Fae parents, calling for their children miles away.

* * *

The betrothal wasn’t something that Jaskier would say was _fun._ He’d sat there all night, singing songs gently through the night. Some about love, some about Geralt, and some about just plain ol’ fucking. The Princess loved it, she smiled and clapped along after a few tears spilled from her eyes on having to marry another. 

And then, oh… the marvelous knight coming in, cursed, and taking Pavetta’s hand in marriage by Law of Surprise. And Jaskier’s stupid, _stupid, stupid_ Witcher just claiming the Law of Surprise as well while Jaskier holds a plump woman in his arms. 

_You fucking dumbass, motherfucking, cock-sucking bitch. It’s a fucking wonder that you’ve survived this long, if you don’t think!_ Jaskier shouted in his own mind before Geralt walked out of the room (because Witchers don’t run). Jaskier beds the noblewoman, while his mind’s off running with Geralt. Then, the next time, Jaskier kisses the woman’s lips, and buggers off to find his destiny. Of course, he doesn’t because Geralt’s already long gone but still. Details.

Jaskier wanders, just until he’s stuck in the clutches of a beautiful woman.

* * *

The beautiful woman is, of course, the Lioness of Cintra and her cubs. Pavetta asks for him often, and he sings for her daughter more often than not. Her first birthday, he sings a blessing of protection over the girl, who giggles and stretches her tiny fingers toward him.

And he doesn’t know if the magic takes hold of the girl, but he feels a good amount of strings on her. Her parents, her grandparents, her people; he feels Geralt’s string, stretches taunt, and feels another’s. It’s also taunt, but it doesn’t seem to avoid the girl like Geralt’s string. 

Jaskier doesn’t feel a string connecting him to her at all. But he still sings at her birthday, sings her mother’s tale and how she’s connected with the Witcher. She doesn’t understand it, of course, but he still travels back toward her for her birthday.

Every single year. Jaskier doesn’t miss a birthday, not even when her parents died. He arrived, sang a mournful tune, and then gave her a pretty locket.

He still felt no string. Nothing connected them, and Jaskier can’t help but feel upset and angry. He keeps going on the road. His heart hurts.

* * *

The Countess isn’t a _bad_ person. She isn’t. She’s very beautiful, honestly, and very kind. But she’s also very territorial and protective and while her husband’s amazing in bed, Jaskier knows she’d rather separate them two. Jaskier’s meant for a quick fuck, when her husband’s not there; her husband’s meant for love, for children, for her name.

Jaskier understands, and the Countess tells him, perhaps months, later that it’s time for him to go. They’re going to have children, the Countess and Count, and they already have a bard. Jaskier nods, thanks her for her companionship, thanks the Count, and takes his leave quickly and quietly. While he wanders, two towns over, the townspeople speak of a Witcher, fishing in the lake.

And Jaskier runs to him.

* * *

He’s choking, dying, coughing and Geralt’s warm hand is on his back. Jaskier turns his eyes toward the djinn, who is watching, waiting, ready. Jaskier wants to curl up his lip, reveal the sharp teeth that are starting to come in, and scare it away but he can’t. His throat hurts, and he can’t fucking _breathe._ And this is all because Geralt wanted a _fucking_ nap. Gods damned it.

And suddenly, Jaskier is on Roach with Geralt right in front of him and she’s riding fast, and hard through the forest. Jaskier can feel his family in the woods staring at him, wanting to reach for their Prince but they can’t. They can help and Jaskier reaches a hand out toward his family before Geralt suddenly whirls around, faster than Jaskier expected, and took Jaskier’s hands. “Don’t,” he says quietly. “You’ll fall off.” 

And he looks towards the forest, bares his teeth, and urges Roach faster. Jaskier’s throat hurt, hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts,

* * *

The healer tells him that Jaskier might die. Jaskier, _prince of Fae,_ might actually die. He can hear his grandfather’s voice, singing, singing, singing. _Come home,_ his grandfather coaxes. _Come home, and we can heal you. Grandson, Jaskier come._ And Jaskier knows his grandfather now wishes, more than anything, that he knew Jaskier’s real name.

And Jaskier croaks out Geralt’s name, says “fuck” and moves his hand back. He tries to convey to his destiny that he needs to go to the Forest. There’s nothing else; he won’t go to a Witch, no matter _what_ she’s going to do. She’ll take his blood, take his mind, she’ll take everything that’s _his._ Geralt doesn’t seem to get the message and just murmurs a quiet “We won’t let that happen,” and Jaskier spits up blood, tears streaming down his face, and then they’re moving again.

* * *

The mayor’s fucking naked, the Witch wants apple juice, and Jaskier just walks into a fucking orgy, didn’t he? Fuck, him. It’s a fucking Witch that’s got fucking humor, isn’t it? Geralt throws Jaskier by two women before going to speak with the Witch, and she’s pretty, he’ll admit. But she’s also fucking _crazy_ and the Chaos that rolls off of her is fucking _insane._

He isn’t paying attention, listening to his grandfather’s insistence in his voice, calling, calling, calling, calling for his grandchild. He’s just as scared as Jaskier; more, probably. Jaskier wants to cry, and he turns his head towards the door, grunting out a noise and a whine, trying to pull from his own sore, killing throat, makes more tears sprang to his eyes.

And then, Jaskier is gone, slipping underneath a deep sleep as the Witch comes closer.

* * *

_“Wizards, witches, chaos collectors,” his grandfather tells him, moving around him to inspect his flower-filled long hair. “They’re all the same. They’re greedy, powerful, and they want more than they should.” Citron puts a daisy right behind Jaskier’s ear._

_“Know that if you do encounter one, your best chance at that moment would be to hide. You will not have our powers, yet. You’re half-human, therefore your Fae powers will come later in life. Stay still, Jaskier.”_

_He squirms once more, before his grandfather finally pulls back, and inspects his work. “When your hair is long enough, we’ll braid some flowers in it as well.”_

_“How will I know if I see a wizard or witches or chaos collectors?” Jaskier asked and his grandfather looked at him._

_“You will know.” He says. “You will feel it, deep inside your soul. And you won’t be able to escape the feeling of something being wrong, and even their Chaos will feel wrong. It will feel forced, and sometimes thick or it will smell something different. Sometimes it will smell wrong, sometimes like flowers. Sometimes, it will smell like blood. Be careful, and if you truly can’t leave, start singing. We will hear, and come to your rescue. You_ **_are_ ** _our Prince.”_

_Jaskier frowns. “What if you can’t?”_

_His grandfather’s eyes glinted, and sharp teeth are shown as he grins. “Then we will teach you to hold your own, just until we can arrive.”_

* * *

He wakes up in silence and he watches the Witch, her eyes dark and she’s waiting for him to wake. She’s going to trap the djinn, and Jaskier isn’t fucking suicidal and his granddad’s waiting for him so he scrambles off the bed as she (kinda sexily) stalks closer to him. She tells him to sing, so he does, trying to please her before she grabs his fucking dick, and her Chaos is _wrong, wrong, wrong, it hurts, it hurts, he’s going to fucking die oh my fucking gods,_ and then she tells him to make a wish.

So, he does. And the djinn, who was just waiting apparently, grants him the one wish and allows him to go free. And Jaskier _runs_. Djinns are spirits of Chaos, and the Witch’s Chaos is so, so, wrong and the djinn will correct it and Jaskier refuses to be here when it kills her.

But, fucking Geralt _wants_ to be. Jaskier can feel Destiny’s delighted shriek, feels the djinn’s happy Chaos, and even feels how two strings are suddenly intertwined, and Jaskier falls to his knees. _“No,”_ he whimpers, and he feels the Fae in the background, his grandfather’s eyes looking at him over and over again. 

_“I’ll sing your praises for the rest of my days,”_ Jaskier promises. If he can’t have Geralt, since Destiny favors the Witch and the Witcher, then he’ll have Geralt’s adventures. Jaskier won’t be bitter. He won’t be. Geralt’s a fucking stupid dumbass, he thinks they can only intertwine their destinies to save her, despite the fact that he didn’t _need_ to. And then Jaskier watches _his_ Witcher fuck the Witch, and then the healer yanks him back, and Geralt finally gets his nap. Jaskier packs his bags, and takes his leave.

* * *

He remeets with Geralt a few years later, younger than ever, and Geralt just doesn’t pay attention. They’re approached by a dragon and his protectors and Jaskier eyes the dragon sharply. It’s rare that they decide to come forth but Jaskier knows why. There’s a wounded dragon that needs to be killed and Borch, apparently, needs one last adventure before he retires. 

Geralt denies it, and Jaskier wants to growl before he smells something _wrong_ in the air, and he snaps his head up to stare at Yennefer of Vengerberg who walks in with a stupid knight. And Geralt agrees while Jaskier laughs, insanity and angrily.

* * *

He goes to find berries for Téa and Véa, and because he’s hungry and he feels like they are, too. He, instead, finds a hirikka and Jaskier runs to Geralt. And then Jaskier watches as the man puts down his crossbow, and sees the hirikka’s ribs and Jaskier can’t help but feel sympathetic. At least, until that dickwad that Yennefer’s playing _kills_ it and then fucking _eats_ it. Jaskier can’t help but feel happy when he goes running for the woods, with his stomach gurgling. Jaskier’s smirking. 

Borch looks back at Jaskier, and a small smile fills his face as well. Chaos in the air, Jaskier’s music filling, turns the conversation toward Nilfgaard and how they’re growing very, very powerful. Jaskier looks up and remarks that he didn’t think dragons existed anymore. Borch eyes him questionably before Geralt tells Jaskier that they _are_ real; they’re just becoming extinct. Then, he goes on about the rare and not-rare ones and Borch corrects Geralt.

“They all die out anyway,” Geralt growled.

* * *

“Prince,” Borch nods at him when Geralt’s gone to speak with Yennefer.

“Dragon,” Jaskier replies, strumming his lute. _Her Sweet Kiss_ isn’t coming along like he wanted it to. 

Téa and Véa are staring at him, eyes dark. Jaskier keeps strumming, frowning slightly before adjusting his lute. They don’t speak for a long time before Jaskier sighs and sets his things aside. “What the fuck do you want?” Jaskier asked, looking at the dragon’s eyes. 

“There is a child, one of my own, at the cave’s edge. I wish to protect it.”

Jaskier sighs. “Yeah,” he says, and slumps down, rubbing his eyes. “I get it.”

“Prince,” Borch kneels down and Jaskier watches warily. “I ask for your permission to do something that will, undoubtedly, hurt your Witcher.”

Jaskier leans forward, the two women watching him. “Tell me,” he says.

* * *

Jaskier watches Bohort kill the knight, and doesn’t do anything. It’s already too late anyway and he’d rather not save a dick. Instead, they follow the secret path he knew; and Borch and the two women dangle below. Jaskier watches with dark eyes as Borch insists that Geralt lets go, and when he doesn’t, Borch does. The two women let go after a few seconds, giving Borch time to Shift.

Jaskier tries to coax Geralt back, as he sits on the edge of the rock. Jaskier’s heart is full, now. It’s been years, and he’s almost forty, and he’s still young. He wants just a few years of the Witcher and him together on the coast. He’d spent centuries with his Witcher if Geralt would just let him.

Geralt doesn’t reply. And Jaskier walks away.

* * *

Borch is a _gold_ dragon. Wowwww, and they’re still alive. _Wooooooooooooooooow_. Jaskier goes to his Witcher, listens to Yennefer’s argument; hears Borch’s. Geralt turns away, angry because of the Child Surprise. Jaskier edges in and says “What a day.” He’s offering comfort; he’s offering safety. 

“I imagine you’re⸺”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt turns around, and Jaskier watches him, carefully. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit, you’re the one shoveling it?”

“That’s not fair,” Jaskier replies. Geralt, right now, isn’t himself. He’s angry, he’s upset, he’s just been dumped. Jaskier can’t blame him for lashing out. And yet…

“The Child Surprise⸺ _stupid man, you claimed the law, did you not?_ ⸺the djinn⸺ _you wanted a nap_ ⸺all of it! If Life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands.”

Jaskier straightens, and looks at his Witcher’s back, who has turned on him. _Okay,_ he thinks. Destiny wants to play her game, and Jaskier is no longer a part of it. He has no strings that connect him to Cirilla, no strings in Yennefer. It’s just Geralt’s, and that’s it. Destiny’s tapestry, for the bard Jaskier, has run its course.

“See you around, Geralt.” Jaskier says softly. And he walks away.

* * *

The dragon egg is a pretty thing and Jaskier watches it. Borch looks at him, and then back at the egg. “A name,” Jaskier calls, when Geralt’s still sulking on the mountain, “You should name her.”

“Would you like the honors?” Borch asks. Jaskier shakes his head. 

“She is yours,” he tells Borch. “If I have her Name, I will be calling her for centuries to come and play.”

“Perhaps,” Borch says. Then, he turns to go toward the sorceress and the witcher. Jaskier watches before turning to the two women.

“Take care of them,” Jaskier says. “And look out for my Witcher if you ever see him again.” And he tilts his head, and turns on his heel, and walks down the mountain, by himself.

* * *

He spent a month singing _Her Sweet Kiss_ in every tavern across the continent, and didn’t go to Cirilla’s birthday party. After his song has become popular, Jaskier pays for a horse and rides it back to Letterhoven, and then sells his horse. He finds his grandmother’s grave and sets down his lute right by her head. 

“I’m home, Grandma,” he whispered. “I’ll take my duties as Prince of Fae. Perhaps I’ll see you in a few years. Keep my lute safe, please. It was a gift from the King of Elves.”

And Jaskier stood, brushed dirt off his clothes, and then went into the woods. He took a deep breath, breathed in the smell of the trees around him. His grandfather and his people come forward and Jaskier straightens his back.

“Did you find what made you happy?” His grandfather asked. Jaskier nodded.

“Did you let it go?” Jaskier nodded.

“It’s okay, Jaskier. Come on,” his grandfather coaxes. “Everything will be okay. If you love something, you let it go.”

“If it doesn’t return, you never had it. If it does, keep it forever.” Jaskier says back.

“Exactly.” His grandfather smiles, filled with pity and pride. “We can only hope that the Witcher will return.”

And Jaskier walks into the forest, tears in his eyes, and a song stuck in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe, y'all. Really! This virus is no joke! Stay inside, stay safe, don't make the doctors who can't be home be even busier because you guys wanna see a movie!!!!! Seriously!!!!! Don't do it!!!!! :((((
> 
> Meet me on my Tumblr, which is the same name ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, tell me if what's wrong, what's horrible inaccurate, and let me correct it. I am begging y'all. Therefore, I do have a Tumble, same name and everything so hit me up. Ummmmm, dat's it. 
> 
> ^.^


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